One by one, the Death Eaters filed down a flight of stairs and into a small waiting space at the bottom. Narcissa led the way and waited for them there, handing each a small silver ball that served as a short-lasting Portkey. When they took the key, it transported them to another, much more secure and secretive location, a room somewhere in the network of hideaways that existed beneath the Malfoy estate. It could not have been the most secret of those, however, if Narcissa knew that it existed--Lucius never told her too much on these matters, always saying that it was for her own protection. That, or he didn't trust her not to break and tell too much under pressure, though perhaps the two reasons were one and the same.

Snape soon moved to the front of the queue and was handed the same silver sphere. The light here was dim and vaguely ghoulish, casting an unflattering pall that made most skin look jaundiced, or worse, in his case. Even Narcissa's looks were eclipsed. Times had been hard for her, he surmised, harder than people would guess, though she hid it as best as she could. One wouldn't know just glancing at her, but Snape was a spy; he was supposed to be observant. Up close he noticed the purple shadows underneath her eyes, the beginnings of lines around her mouth, where the skin was losing its elasticity. Apparently lack of funding, a husband in prison, and the Ministry keeping a close watch had taken its toll even on Narcissa.

Perhaps there was a cruel edge to his observations. She had been unkind to him when he was an awkward first year, being tripped by Crabbe and Goyle Seniors in the cafeteria or finding himself the butt of pranks in the Slytherin common area. Snape hadn't known her well in school, even after he had fallen in with Lucius and his crowd, but he'd been acquainted with her well enough to have seen every snobbish tendency that Draco had charmingly inherited from her. Narcissa had given him a certain respect eventually because she was afraid of him and the spells he knew, the malice he might bear toward her. But it was dangerous to forget that her charm turned off and on as easily and frequently as she pleased. While earlier she might have been attentive and friendly, now she barely looked at Snape she placed the Portkey in his hand and stepped back.

There was a flash of light as it activated and then darkness. As was the Dark Lord's preference, the room was dimly lit; candles wavered and guttered in red glasses, casting a sickly bloody glow over walls, furniture, and occupants. This was a room that Snape had never seen before--quite non-descript and simple for the Malfoy taste, a combination of being built recently and with less than aesthetic purposes for its existence. Utility was a rare quality in this mansion, with its strange patchwork accumulation of gothic, Baroque, and Victorian decor.

Clustered in the middle of the room, a circle of Death Eaters looped around an unseen central figure. The Dark Lord. Ready yourself… Snape worked to clear his mind, to let his thoughts settle and become calm. Mental barriers that he kept up permanently were there already, but he could never let them falter--intense stress, lack of sleep, strong emotions, all could affect his defenses, and this was something he could not afford.

He had given himself as much time for mental preparation as he could without appearing suspicious, but now he would have to pay his respects to the Dark Lord. The circle of Death Eaters opened to allow him into their ranks, swallowing him up amid the rustles of their cloaks. Now the Dark Lord saw that he was there; his eyes lit on Snape with a cold light, and he nodded. "Ah, my spy," he said softly, the words a sibilant hiss. With a twitch of those spidery hands he summoned Snape to his side, the inner circle within the inner circle. It was a privilege to be greeted this way--so what did the Dark Lord want?

Snape moved forward, dropping to his knees in front of the Dark Lord as quickly as he could, and waited for a command. The swishing of robes, the light, barely perceptible footfalls as the Dark Lord came forward, seemed almost unbearably loud to his ears; the other Death Eaters were all silent, with not so much as a sigh or rustle, or the scrape of footsteps on carpeting. Stopping directly in front of him, the Dark Lord crooked one long, cold finger under Snape's chin, a menacing caress. "Look at me, my servant."

Snape looked up, directly into the Dark Lord's eyes. He could feel the forced connection between them, a cold and foreign presence probing at his mind, running searching tendrils through his memories, his thoughts. Blocking one's thoughts from an accomplished Legilmens without any revealing signs was no small feat; sweat began to trickle under his collar uncomfortably. He would be exhausted that night--maybe he would even be able to fall asleep without too much trouble for once.

At last the Dark Lord was satisfied with what he found there--mundane images of the classroom, of staff meetings, bland conversations with the Headmaster-- and he broke the connection between them, leaving Snape's mind with an almost violent wrench. "Rise, Severus."

Snape climbed back to his feet with some difficulty--he wasn't as young as he used to be, was he?--and attempted to blend back in with the rest of the Death Eaters. Most of the crowd had arrived by now and was pressing in anxiously, some hoping for any shred of acknowledgement from the Dark Lord, though many more were trying as hard as they could to remain out of his notice. Those were the smart ones, in Snape's opinion, though he remembered a time when he too had craved attention, approval. He had thought if only he won the Dark Lord's favoritism, the rest of his colleagues would accept him, as if he had been one of their own from the beginning. Naturally, that wasn't how it worked. What recognition he achieved only caused resentment and jealousy among the ranks, murmurs of how someone who came from such Wizarding trash could be trusted with such a role.

Now the Dark Lord had begun to speak and the crowd fell silent, hands clasped and heads dropped respectfully as if in church. Voldemort paced back and forth in front of them, his voice starting soft and even and building as he spoke. "We have not met for a long while, my brothers and sisters. What you may have heard is true, though the blood traitors are loath to admit it: your brethren that had been imprisoned in Azkaban are free!" At the sound of the word Azkaban many shivered, but then cheered enthusiastically at the news. "We broke the Ministry's defenses, we showed them how weak they were in their self-confidence. The blood traitor whom they called Minister, that insipid fool Cornelius Fudge, is dead."

More cheering ensued, a fierce and bloody thirsty undertone that Snape emulated rather half-heartedly. Truly he had always despised Fudge, but now at his death and defeat he felt nothing, not even a little pleasure that the man was gone from his life forever.

"It was a small victory, but a great one in its importance, in its message to the rest of the Wizarding world… But never forget, now that we have won this battle, times will change…" The Dark Lord moved within the circle of Death Eaters, turning to cast his eye on each of them individually. In anticipation of his gaze, they stood up straighter, chins higher, eyes straight ahead and unwavering, even as Snape could sense the waves of fear mixed with excitement that rolled off them. "Yes, we have killed the man responsible for your shame and imprisonment…we have made the collaborator pay. But make no mistake, times will be more dangerous for us now. It is the time of trial, when we must be ever vigilant, for traitors within our ranks, for those who lack the courage to fight openly.

"My brothers, you are the inner circle…I trust you implicitly, as you know. We are sworn to one another by a most dark and ancient vow…we are each other's true family in the world, sharing a bond even stronger than that of blood. We must honor and protect each other as befits that bond… Among all your brethren, I trust you to know one another, to recognize each other by name and face. It is a privilege and a power, and I am sure that you will use this as I have intended… I trust that you will fail me no longer, that you will hold back nothing and fear no repercussion. You are my chosen, my forward guard, my true Knights of Walpurgis--yes, some of you remember that name well, do you not? Show me that my faith in you has not been misplaced!"

It was the usual speech: reassuring his followers that they were special and honored, that they should continue to follow him without question, that the end was near and now was the time to rally, to sacrifice anything that held them back. As always the Death Eaters wanted to hear that they had been the hand of justice that was sorely needed, that they were righting the wrongs the Wizarding world had done them, that soon the appropriate glory would be restored to Purebloods everywhere. It was nauseating to think that he too had once lapped this kind of thing up, listening eagerly as he imagined fifty different kinds of gruesome revenge on those blood traitors who had made his life so miserable while he was at Hogwarts. Oh, Snape did not deceive himself about this. At one time he had truly believed this rhetoric, believed that it would improve his lot in life. He had thought a little Muggle torture, a little revenge on former classmates, some "dark and ancient" ceremonies with too much alcohol and a little blood spilt to make it exciting would cure all his problems, right all the wrongs that had been done him. How naïve he had been.

Joining the Death Eaters had been the first thing he'd ever done that made his parents proud--good marks, a NEWT in Potions, even the possibility of a prestigious apprenticeship in his chosen field had not piqued his parents' interest. His father was too absorbed in drinking himself into a stupor on a daily basis to pay attention to current events or to notice exactly how this self-proclaimed Dark Lord was terrorizing their world; his mother was not in a position to be aware of anything outside her narrow and claustrophobic life. It was laziness in the first place that made Snape's father subscribe to the Dark Lord's vision, that dream of seizing power back from the hands of the greedy, grasping Mudbloods and blood traitors who were cheating the deserving of their share.

The deserving, indeed. Snape's father had spent at least two thirds of his day drunk, wildly talking at anyone who came into his shop, ranting against Muggles and Mudbloods and blood traitors, offering conspiracy theories for everything that was wrong in the Wizarding world. No wonder that his business was failing, that his family lived in a dingy flat and went to bed hungry more often than not--what money there was from the day's business had an alarming tendency to vanish at the local pub. Despite the flyers and pamphlets he waved, the declarations of Pureblood pride and venom spewed against "their kind", there was no one to blame but himself for his wretched life.

Just like there was no one else to blame for Snape's own unhappy life? The thought rose unbidden and stubbornly refused to be squelched. He'd followed this train of thought many a time before, though he knew it was futile and only put him in a foul mood. Yes, he had spent most of his life paying for mistakes--either the sins of his father and forefathers, or those idiotic errors he had made half his life ago. He was still trapped by the blunders of his eighteen year-old self; he could not escape from the person he had been then, even if he repudiated that life, even if he looked back on those years with no small amount of self-loathing.

This is why he was there, in Lucius Malfoy's hidden room, listening as the Dark Lord finished his speech. The Death Eaters were cheering now, crying out in instant agreement, their voices filled with rage over what injustice had been done to them and joy over their much awaited victory. Sweaty anticipation hung in the air, a hunger for some excitement. Excitement that smelled like blood and death and dark magic, the usual mixture. They were getting restless and the Dark Lord sensed it.

"I am sure you would like to meet with your own comrades now, those who have been separated from you while they suffered in the prison of the blood traitors…"

For the first time, Snape noticed Lucius Malfoy, sitting in a corner like the guest of honor--which he was, in a way, even though this was his own house. Of course Snape had known that he was in Azkaban, but he still hadn't managed to imagine Lucius so wraith-like, such a shadow of his former self. He was still recognizable certainly, though he had lost a great deal of weight; his face was gaunt, his cheeks sunken, his eyes hollow but lit with a glassy fire. His hair's former sheen was gone; it now hung in a dull, limp ponytail over his shoulder. Wrapped in a black cloak against some non-existent chill, he appeared like a cross between a Victorian invalid and a vampire. Narcissa fluttered about him, all wifely concern, though Snape noted the tight line of her jaw, the whiteness of her knuckles as she poured him tea, and the way she seemed to be invisible to him.

Snape weighed the advantages of saying hello, but decided against it. Most of the other Death Eaters in the crowd were pressing in on the Malfoys, paying their respects to Lucius and Narcissa with far more show than substance. Narcissa was her usual socialite self, returning their extravagant blandishments with her own insincerity, but Lucius appeared to be barely present. He inclined his head, nodded at some statements they made, but even from the other side of the room Snape could sense an underlying anger, a distaste for the entire situation.

In general the new "heroes" were the center of attention; those members of the inner circle who had been spared Azkaban all wanted to share sentiments such as, "I can't imagine what you went through" and "I only wish I had your courage." Snape did his best to blend in with the crowd, making small talk when absolutely necessary, and making a quick detour for the alcohol when it appeared. He didn't drink much--intoxication always weakened the powers of an Occlumens, which may have been why it was so often served at Death Eater gatherings--but at times, he felt it was absolutely necessary. This event, he felt whole-heartedly, fell in the necessary category.

After avoiding Bellatrix Lestrange, who had backed Dolohov's wife into a corner and was speaking rather wildly, Snape found that he had wondered over into a quiet corner, not too far from where Lucius was now speaking to the Dark Lord. It was rare that any follower should command his attention in this way, though Lucius had always had a special place of privilege. Snape was close enough to be in earshot, though far enough away that he didn't look suspicious; as long as he didn't make eye contact and kept his thoughts carefully contained, the Dark Lord likely would not suspect a thing. This could be valuable information for the Order, Snape rationalized, deciding that it was worth the risk.

The conversation sounded as if it had almost reached the end of its course, and Snape cursed mentally. If only he hadn't been waylaid getting across the room…but then their voices rose again.

"They humiliated me." This was Lucius speaking, his voice shaking with anger. "Do my fellow brothers offer me help when I have need? Did they extend common courtesy to my wife? No, they did not. They offered her no aid, or no aid without certain…favors expected in return. They insulted her, they treated her as if she were a common…"

He had always thought that Narcissa had had too much pride to ask others for help, but it must have been worse than he imagined--of course, she had humbled herself to write to Andromeda, but that way no one else would know of her secret shame. To go to someone else in the Order was far riskier, socially speaking…but to have no one help her? Or to proposition her when she was desperate? Whoever had done that had been an unwise man. Lucius was not tolerant of others having an interest in his possessions.

The Dark Lord was milder than he would have been with anyone else. "Lucius, Lucius, you must have patience… You know I do not have time to divert my attention in this war. You must concentrate on the greater scheme for the time being…when victory is here, the situation will be different. There is always time for revenge when one does not have more pressing matters at hand. Do you understand?"

There was a terse silence and then, "Of course, my Lord. I understand completely."

"Good. See that it remains that way."

"As you wish it, it shall be done, my Lord," Lucius intoned dully.

"But there is a matter that interests me more than your petty concerns of today," the Dark Lord continued. "I am curious that you spoke of this house earlier, the Black family house, that has so mysteriously disappeared."

"Narcissa said it could not be found. Blatant incompetence on the part of whatever fools she hired, likely. Or perhaps they were taking advantage of her, and in that case must be dealt with." Lucius's grasp on his wand tightened, as if he were wringing the necks of these hypothetical goons who would cheat his wife.

"Perhaps…" The Dark Lord's voice trailed off. "But perhaps not. I have spoken with Wormtail on this matter and I am not entirely without my suspicions."

"Then I am certain they are for a good cause and not unfounded," Lucius said quickly.

There was a brief flash of his customary cold laughter, and the Dark Lord shook his head. "Wormtail knows little, but his information may be of some use. The house cannot be found by normal means or with any ordinary magic…it is unplottable, it has been for some time…does this surprise you, Lucius? Did you not think of this before?"

"My Lord, I was only just released from Azkaban, I have not had the time…"

The Dark Lord waved a hand, dismissing his words. "I will not punish you for lack of foresight this time. As I was saying, Wormtail's memory is not reliable all the time, but he is almost certain that Mr. Black put many spells on the house… Is this is of no interest to you, Lucius?"

"Of course it interests me, if you think it should, my Lord."

"Indeed. Lucius, your loyalty amazes me."

Lucius was silent, likely realizing that there was no easily good response to this; the Dark Lord could not be contradicted, yet to go along with his sarcasm could annoy him as well. Snape knew these games well, knew how they served as amusement. "I shall inquire into these matters, if you wish, my Lord."

"We shall speak more of this later, at a more appropriate time and place."

"Very well, my Lord." And with that, Lucius was dismissed from his master's company. Rising from his solitary chair for the first time, Lucius began to make the rounds of the room, allowing a few perfunctory greetings as he received congratulations. Snape felt new displeasure as Lucius's gaze fell squarely on him.

"So Severus, you're not free of me forever."

Snape inclined his head, giving a little smile at the Lucius's dubious sense of wit.
"So it seems."

Lucius continued, unaware of any irony in his statement or Snape's response. "I trust that the status quo continues at Hogwarts?"

"Nothing has changed of late," Snape said. "As I'm sure you know, our esteemed Headmaster is still in residence." He injected his words with the expected scorn, like an actor reciting his lines in the hundredth performance of a play.

"And my son? How is he doing?"

"Draco exceeds expectation in Potions as always--the boy has a true talent in that field. Beyond academia, he seems to be coping…adequately. His frequent clashes with Harry Potter have drawn the Headmaster's eye more than once, however."

Lucius frowned. "I shall have a word with him. Understandable sentiments, I'm sure, but as always, his execution…" He sighed. "I cannot say what he lacked in his upbringing to make him fail so when it comes to matters of subtlety."

"The boy is young; there's still time left for him to acquire polish. With maturity, perhaps."

"If Narcissa ever stops spoiling the boy," Lucius said curtly. "The way she indulges him…she doesn't see the danger in softening him the way she does. Sometimes I don't think she sees the danger in the world at all. She still feels safe, even now, I think." His thoughts seemed to trail off, to some end that Snape didn't follow.

"Don't you think it was rather risky to hold the gathering here?" Snape said softly, hoping this wouldn't raise Lucius's ire overly much.

Lucius' eyes flared and his hands twisted on his wand. "Let them come and find me here, in my own house. If those filthy bastards were here in my home, we would give them what they deserve…"

"You're staying here then, after this?" asked Snape, as casually as he could manage.

"No, there's a family vacation house that we've had under a false name for many years. Always good to be prepared, you know. It's quite isolated and I've taken preventative measures just to be safe; I don't think the Ministry should be poking their noses about there any time soon. I just have some matters to set right here first--preparation, things to gather, some delicate matters to be dealt with, you know."

"Ah." Snape nodded. Of course he couldn't directly ask Lucius where he would be staying, but this was possibly useful information nonetheless.

"And I have to make sure that Narcissa will be able to maintain her life here. The Ministry will be around asking questions soon, I imagine."

"Yes, I imagine they will."

Lucius's eyes darted around, focusing on something at the other side of the room, and Snape was struck by how he seemed almost mad; certainly, his mind was elsewhere. After a moment, much to Snape's relief, Lucius excused himself with some mumbled statement about seeing to other business.

Snape was more or less alone after this. He got through what seemed like several interminable hours of small talk, the same reminiscing about the good old days and anticipation of the glorious times that lay ahead. Finally the Dark Lord called for a final closing session, where he gave proclamations to instill fear and remind them of the price of disloyalty. Not leaving his warnings just to talk, he dealt out a few punishments as he saw fit, and then gave them permission to leave.

Snape received his own warning and dismissal. "That is so you do not forget where your allegiance lies," the Dark Lord said and struck him with a blast of wandless magic, a bolt of pain that leapt between them. It was like a punch in the gut, leaving Snape winded.

"My allegiance is always with you, my Lord. Always." Snape bowed low before the Dark Lord's feet, his vision blurring as he was almost overcome by nausea. He rose shakily to his feet, making his way to the outer circle of followers, where he could brace himself against the wall with an arm.

Somehow he made his way back up the stairs, through two apparations, and arrived thoroughly exhausted at 12 Grimmauld Place. McGonagall was waiting for him, sitting in a chair, and she jumped up and caught him by the arm as he staggered.

"You look terrible, Severus," she said bluntly. "No color at all in your face, and you're shaking like a leaf. Let me get you something." She helped him over to the couch and insisted that he have a seat while she got him something to drink.

The something--a quick shot of whiskey--did restore some of the color to his face, even though it left him choking and sputtering "You drink that?" he said incredulously. She nodded.

After giving him a moment to catch his breath, she sat down next to him on the sofa. "So Severus, tell me, what evil and mischief are afoot in the world at this precise moment?"